Morning, sunshine
by charliethedreamer
Summary: Captain Swan ficlet: Post season three finale, compilation of fluffy scenes speculating on where their relationship could go from that beautiful kiss outside Grannie's.


_A/N: I wanted to write some sort of speculation fluff after that amazzinng finale, and with lots of different ideas I managed to pull myself away from my revision to write this compilation of fluffy scenes speculating on where their relationship could go from that beautiful *sobs* kiss. Enjoy!x_

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It's in that hazy space between sleep and waking – she can't quite recall what she was dreaming about, something like rum and warm hands and a crooked smile – that Emma feels the soft press of lips along her shoulder – pointedly _bare_ shoulder – and a lazy smile tugs at the corners of her lips, eyes cracking open, as she feels his nose along the slope of her neck.

"Good morning," she murmurs; voice groggy and thick with sleep and she doesn't even know what time it is – maybe late morning going by the sunlight that filters through the hotel room, gentle patterns that dance over the wooden floors, a mess of sheets surrounding her – nor does she care.

There's no reason to get out of bed – no _witch _or _time travel, _and no more _running _– and with the warm duvet and warm lips and _Killian Jones _she sees every reason _not _to get out of bed.

"Good morning indeed," he hums and she can feel his voice against her throat as he marks the curve of her jaw with his lips, scruff brushing against her cheek and she can practically _feel _his grin – warm and happy and _god _it feels _right – _

His lips move upward, pressing softly against the dimple where the corners of her lips meet and it's all it takes for her to tilt her head, pressing her lips softly to his – just like before, just as soft and tender and _loving. _

And just like that, any chances they had of getting out of bed for the next hour – probably longer – are gone with tangled limbs and soft sunlight.

.

She doesn't know what it is – maybe it's all the times she _should _have touched him (with her _lips _most times) – but the gentle art of _touch _doesn't seem to be one that they are currently refraining from appreciating.

(It's how it's been this whole past week – hands on shoulders, arms around her waist, finger in her hair, twisting and brushing and sometimes _tugging – _)

His hand is on her thigh as they sit at Grannie's – the fond diner humming and buzzing and she doesn't know what ever made her think this town _wasn't _home.

His foot is tangled lazily with hers, boots rubbing and it's _sweet, _smile ever-present as she stuffs pancakes into her mouth, something like amusement playing on her mind as she watches her son from across the booth, brow furrowed in concentration as he puzzles over a newspaper.

She takes the last mouthful of her breakfast (or it could be lunch; as predicted, her – _their –_ withdrawal from the bed was hardly _prompt – ) _just as Henry lifts his head, dropping the paper to the table and sliding it over to her.

"Apartments," he says, something triumphant and decisive about his voice. It's a topic for which much talk has been abandoned over the past days, mainly because he's been staying with Regina – Emma knows better than to debate it, given the situation – and she's been making do with a room at Grannie's.

(Although, all things considered, it's much more _their _room than it is _hers._)

She pushes her plate away, settling back into the booth as she picks it up, noting the red pen that circle a few of the apartment notices.

Killian's hand slides away from her thigh, arm moving around to the back of her chair, hand fiddling with her hair as he reads over her shoulder.

"That one…" Henry says, reaching over the table and pointing at one of the properties "…is my favourite. It's – "

" – by the docks," she finishes quietly, eyes flicking up to her pirate, his expression completive as his eyes trace the paper still clutched in her hand. She knows then – knows by _him _and all that he gave up for her _(her) – _that _by the docks _is just what she – _they _– need.

That – and that her kid's a freaking genius.

"I'm gonna get more cocoa," Henry says – smart kid – and she watches him slide out of the booth, her thumb brushing over the paper, thoughts of home drifting amidst her thoughts, his fingers still playing with her hair.

(She might ask him why he keeps doing it but she knows she'll only get a goofy grin and maybe _because it's pretty _murmured into her ear.)

"What do you reckon?" she asks, turning her head to meet his eyes. "Place by the docks…you think you could handle that?"

"Me?" he repeats, the implication clear, doubt ringing and it makes her heart constrict slightly and does so in that same way it does whenever he looks at her, his eyes always shining with _something _and he always smiles and she knows it's because he's making sure she's still there – hasn't left him – and what's more is how she's doing the _same. _

(The fact that every time – after their kiss, in the diner, in their hotel room – he's still _there _never fails to make her heart do a little flutter that is so _not _her.)

"Yes you, you idiot," she replies, rolling her eyes because Captain Hook and insecurity – who knew. "Unless you were planning on living in a hotel room at Grannie's."

His mouth curves into a grin. "She does charge a bloody fortune."

She smiles, remembering back to when she first came to Storybrooke, lost and broken and completely without a home (did she really live in her _car?_), and _this – this _is home.

He inclines his head slightly, nosing nudging hers and just _look _at them – freaking _nuzzling _in a diner and they _really _ought to stop.

(But then again – her parents do it all the time and affection feels just so _natural _with him.)

"Living together, Swan," he says in a low tone. "Even I know that's hardly _going slow_."

She knows what the insinuation is – that she should be _scared. _Scared because it _is _quite fast after all, but then again he spent god knows how long feeling god knows what for her so maybe _sensible timing_ has never really been their thing – plus the fact that it just makes _sense. _

"Maybe I don't care," she replies, nose still rubbing against his and they should stop as Henry's going to be back in a second and he's been rolling his eyes – in a _I'm secretly pleased to see you happy _way, mind – at them all week. "Maybe this is what I want."

He doesn't say anything else, simply closes what small distance remains between them, lips pressing against hers – still making the air around her hum and her body buzz, even after a week of kisses, some long and slow and tender, others rough and passion-filled and eager – and she can feel his smile and, lord help her because she's practically _smitten, _she smiles back.

They've pulled apart by the time Henry sits himself back down, fresh mug of hot chocolate with cinnamon in his hand.

"Drink up, kid and we'll go look at that place," she says. Her son's is smile bright, his nod eager, Killian's hand on her shoulder warm and she reasons that no matter really _what _it looks like, as long as she has her boys it'll feel like home.

(It takes on look at the large window at the front – stretch of blue sea easily visible – the white wash walls and dusty oak floors, the space that hums with potential for comfy sofas and warm rugs, maybe a recliner, to know that _this _is the place.)

(One look at the large bedroom – Killian murmuring _inappropriate _things into her ear in a low, rumbling tone – and she's dialling Gold to reach some sort of arrangement.)

.

Emma isn't entirely unsurprised to see her New York apartment is almost exactly how she left it. Breakfast plates still lie in the sink, orange juice glasses still on the counter, sofa cushions still here and there and she can't but help feel a twinge of sadness, although it's gone as soon as it came – fading with promises of the life she has to get back to, with her son's apparent lacking in any such remorse for the place and a warm hand that belongs to him on her shoulder.

There are a few differences that she notices, stepping inside; mainly those languid signs of abandon – the plants that are beginning to wilt, the slightly dusty feel to the place.

The one big difference – the one that washes over Emma, leaving her feeling nothing particularly uncomfortable – is how when she looks at the place – the décor, the view, the pictures that are now _clearly _missing people, the side table that she now looks at with scorn – she no longer sees _home. _

And, with the help of her boys – Killian examining everything they pack into the cardboard boxes with an amusing mix of confusion and intrigue, Henry practically _hugging _his x-box – they're in and out of the place in under two hours, and once the boxes are strapped to the back of David's truck they're off –

Heading back home.

.

"Bloody heavy, some of this stuff," she hears him grumble from behind her. Electing to ignore it – really, he's quite the five-year old sometimes – she slots a key – one of the three she's had cut – into the door, pushing it open and stepping into their new apartment.

It's just as empty as it had been when they'd looked at it, vacant but for the kitchen counter and cabinets and the window with the view that floods the place with light and the window seat that she's definitely going to buy cushions for.

She's standing in the middle of it – envisioning the location of sofa's she'd spotted in the furniture place, the one full of all random trinkets and dusty books and blue-wash dressers – when Killian comes through the door, huffing and dropping the two boxes to the floor.

He straightens out, looking around the apartment and even though they looked at it the other day, it feels _different _this time. It's final – they've bought it – they're really _doing this. _"What d'you think?" she asks and he turns to her, eyes bright, smile wide.

"I think…" he says, moving over to her, sliding his hands down her waist to rest at her hips "…it's perfect."

She can barely get out her smiled _good _before his lips are on hers, gentle and _loving _and she can see it – lazy Sundays and quite evenings and family dinners – and she knows that this is _right, _knows that if he _wasn't_ here the place would seem too empty and she'd be chased by sleepless nights and a bed that's too big –

There's more footsteps on the stairs and his lips press against hers one more time before he pulls back, hands falling from her side in time for David to come through the door with Henry, the former shooting them a suspicious glance (although one that lacks conviction, given he's finally come around) before giving the place a once over.

One day and a few arguments later – (the sofa should go _there _and then the x-box should go _there _(No, Henry – the sofa should go _there _and the x-box _there _) – and she's collapsing down on her new couch, smile soft as her eyes trace the bookshelves and photos, only dragging her eyes away to smile at her pirate as he kicks off his boots, sinking into the sofa beside her.

His lips are warm as he presses them to her jaw, her resolve weak as he's persistent, and with lazy kisses soft laughs and smiles and rubbing noses the apartment in New York is dead to her.

.

Emma uses memories of stiff corsets and unsubtle leering as a way of steering away any guilt she feels listening to him grumble from behind the door of the changing room, ignoring his complaints of how _annoying _this realms cloths are, thinking to herself that if _she_ had to were that stupid uncomfortable dress and heavy cloak because they were in the enchanted forest then he has to comply with this realms fashion.

And head-to-toe black leather doesn't _really _make the cut.

He finally comes of the changing room – huffing and moaning and fiddling with buttons – and she can't help it (_damn _her – no, damn _him_) but her eyes widen slightly and her lips part because _well then._

She's never really considered herself the _fashion _sort – boots and jeans and a leather jacket are hardly _art _– but she thinks that maybe she's getting the hang of it, the dark wash jeans and t-shirt and plaid hanging over it being the _perfect _choice and he looks up at her, the annoyance fading into something smug when he notices her expression.

"You know it's rude to stare, love," he says with a bemused grin and she can only roll her eyes – quickly snapping out of whatever she was in, jeans that hugged all the right places – as he saunters towards her, eyes playful and before he can do anything – because she knows he _would_, no consideration for location when it comes to kissing – she stuffs more clothes into his arms, turning him back towards the changing room, smiling at his five-year-old like whine.

.

"Really?" he says, his voice humming against her. "That's how you chose your alias?"

"Yup," she says, wondering quietly to herself how she ended up _here – _watching Star Wars with Captain Hook – but she finds the answer to be quite obvious. Maybe if Henry hadn't been reading the book again, laughing and shaking his head at her choice of _Leia, _maybe if Killian hadn't asked what was so funny about it, hadn't wanted to know why she picked it.

He's stretched out in front of her, head on her stomach, her fingers running through his hair lazily and he directs his eyes back to the screen, and she waits for it because she knows what scene is coming up –

As predicted, he stills slightly, Princess Leia and Han Solo bickering on screen and god knows _why _she'd been thinking of _that _and _them _in the middle of a freaking _ball. _

"Scoundrel…" Killian murmurs to himself – Emma wanting to cringe because of _course_ he'd pick up on it – and he twists his head round to look up at her from under his lashes, eyes dancing with mischief and she groans.

"Something you'd like to share with the class, Swan?" he grins and she rolls her eyes, using a hand to push his head back in the direction of the TV.

"Shut up and watch the movie."

(His grin lasts for the duration of it – and a bit after – and she can't help but give in, smiling to herself because really, she must have known all along.)

.

Somehow a dinner routine at the new apartment is set in place and Friday nights become about good food and nice wine and her little brother babbling away in the corner.

It's on one of these quite nights – table clear, dishes in the sink, an arm on the back of her chair (_his _arm, playing with her hair again), brother dozing in his mother's arms – that everything – home, her family, how damn _content _she is – washes over Emma.

She finds herself looking at her family, the one she'd thought she'd never have, was too _scared _to have, forever grateful to the one who took down those walls – annoying, flirtatious, sappy, _hers –_ who gently reversed that fear.

The one who with patience and persistence and actions rather than words somehow wormed his way into her heart, the one who with coming back for her time after time and making her _laugh _and _smile _in times when she felt neither was capable somehow managed to make her see what she should have seen all along.

And so when he says those three little words one night – eyes closed, smile content, as if he barely even _meant _to say them – she waits for the fear to come, waits for the desire to run to return –

And it doesn't. She's tired of running – of waiting for the next fight. Instead, burying her head into the crook of his neck, a leg slipping in between his, she murmurs it back, sighing contently when she feels his smiling lips on her forehead.

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_A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Review?_


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